C’EST MOI:

I'm an atheist, anarchist writer. Angels, demons, gods and aliens are interchangeable here. I'm self-governed only by freedom of speech, as defined by Amnesty as a human right. I write fiction and non-fiction, under my own name and as a freelance copywriter and ghostwriter. I'm also an alcoholic with chronic depression.
I'm a regular contributor of short fiction to a webzine and I've had over 50 stories published online and in print. I've published two novels, two anthologies and an award-winning children's book. I'm working on other books and I continue to write short stories for a third collection.
The rest is contained within this blog, where I wear my heart on my left hand and tell it as it is, or how I see things.

Filing cabinet:

Previously:

Repetitive Strain Syndrome:

Please Release me, Let me in

16.11.14 (Day 329)

I’m in the kitchen with Little Blue feeling only a little blue at the moment: I’m typing on the Android’s keyboard and having no human contact. Wanting to be alone but at the same time craving human contact is one of the many cerebral conflicts I deal with. I’m feeling better than I did yesterday, thanks to my props: the people who prop me up only for me to get tired and ratty, have a mood swing and throw it all back at them. I’m like a loveable but uncontrollable dog. I don’t love myself (much) but for some reason people love me. Others hate me and the feeling is reciprocated. I hate myself sometimes.

It’s a dog which has displaced me from the family sofa but he’s more family than me, so he gets priority. He’s also cuter than me. I’m outcast: the story of my life, of my own making.

I’m feeling better than I did yesterday but things change and people change. In reply to one of the props in my life yesterday, I wrote this:

“It’s the silence and the noise in my head.

“When my head goes silent, the horrible thoughts come back. When my head is empty. I long for silence but when I find it, the voices return. The knowledge of inevitable death is there. I long for sleep. Sometimes a sleep from which I’ll not wake up. I’m angry with my head. Bitter and twisted and taking it out on others. I’m not good.

“So, nothing to tell as my mind is a paradox. I crave company but seek solace alone. No matter how welcome I am wherever I go, I feel in my paranoid state that I’m imposing, in the way, interfering… My brain is in conflict with itself. I need a place of my own but people and the system have let me down. Its always been like this. Even in marital homes, I’ve felt like a guest and resented those who I looked after. I was happiest in my own place in Bexley but I still craved contact. I’m relationship dependent but resistant and repellant. So much conflict. I’m narcissistic but hate myself. I resent my intelligence. Its a poisoned chalice. Its like constantly arguing with yourself. A love hate relationship involving only one person. I wish I could be rid of my damaged brain. I wish it would all end sometimes. The last year has been awful but I’ve made the most of it. The past couple of weeks have just been hellish and when you’re Ill like me, those knocks hurt. I want to be better but there’s no cure for a broken heart and a damaged brain so I have to live with it but I don’t want to.”

And people paid attention, which is always gratifying. Just a shame that so many others gave up, mainly because they simply don’t understand. Well neither do I. Yes, I’m still alcohol dependent and that’s what’s on my medical certificate. But I’m receiving treatment and can control it. I’m also chronically depressed and as such have been abandoned by many. I’m fit to work, for myself. I can’t take orders from a boss; only customers. I just need some. And I constantly shoot myself in both feet by being so frank about myself but I will not tell a lie.

Misplaced: as in I don’t belong here. I’m welcome here but I shouldn’t be here. I should have been moved on by now. If I’d drunk more, taken more drugs or committed more crime, I’d have got more help. But I’m too good for my own good.

So the distaste is the one in my mouth over the unfair treatment. And the gob full of last night’s fried chicken I just ate. There’s a loaf of bread I bought, sitting right in front of me in the kitchen but nothing else to go with it that I bought and I don’t like to take what isn’t mine. So it’s the food I’m offered, the food I cook and the odd slice of toast which provides sustenance. Then I just make it go as far as possible by grazing throughout the day.

17.10.14 (Day 330)

That was yesterday. Today is another day in personal hell; locked inside the planet which is my brain.

I’m having an anxiety attack; the big sister of the panic attack. The latter are easier to deal with as you’re taught to literally get a grip and repeat, “This too shall pass”. And they do. Anxiety attacks last for hours, sometimes days. They’re difficult to describe but it’s like existing just outside yourself and in the midst of a dark, malevolent cloud. There’s an impending feeling of doom and you just wish that someone would put a gun to your head and put you out of your misery. The big, black dog is here.

I miss my wives (the second of whom I’m in a shared relationship with now), my fiances (and finances), my girlfriends, my family, my kids and my friends. I miss the Pink Hearts. I miss the homes and the squat. I miss the sense of belonging. I don’t belong here. I’m a welcome guest but without being able to move on myself – despite much effort – I feel I should be moved on.

But my loving adoptive family won’t let me go for fear of what I might do: play with a life-size train set.

I miss being in business and am trying to build a new one. I know it takes time but it’s easier to knock me down now than it was when I ran the previous companies. And no orders this far in is a knock. But who would let me inside their house? My honesty and frankness is a rod in my back and a shot in my foot.

On the subject of being let into a house / home, Colebrook House (the hostel) is still seemingly just out of reach. On the subject of broken engagements, CRI are still not engaged with me – despite constant pressuring from me – and I need them to be working with me in order to get into the hostel. Knock after knock; on doors and to me.

And how many knocks can someone who was made homeless a year ago be expected to take in a year? I’ve had a bottle smashed in my face, a chair over my head; been throttled, beaten up, stabbed, burned and threatened with much worse (just how do you anatomically rip someone’s lungs out?); I’ve had ribs broken and suffered many cuts and bruises. I’ve lost six friends who saw fit to die on me, as well as receiving death threats myself. I’ve had a daughter stillborn and incinerated as hospital waste. I’ve failed but I’ve fought back. I’ve stolen, been stolen from, been arrested, spent nights in police cells and hospital beds. I’m serving an 18 month suspended gaol (that’s jail / prison to the non-traditionalist) sentence.

And that’s just in the last year. Before that, I lost everything that I don’t have now. Why? Because I’m ill. And being ill is a life sentence and a full-time job. I’m trying to get on, or end it all.

It’s not the alcohol so much now as the chronic depression (diagnosed). Depression made worse admittedly by drinking. This life drives you to drink and makes you depressed. Both illnesses are no aid to opening doors.

I need someone to help me. Believe in me and help me get on. Or shoot me.